


run run rudolph

by impossiblepluto



Series: have yourself a fluffy, whumpy christmas [16]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Drowning, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:14:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21823528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: “Brakes are out,” Jack says. The steady calm of his voice belying his panic.Mac thought he was cold before. Jack's words induce a dread that freezes the very marrow of his bones.
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Series: have yourself a fluffy, whumpy christmas [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1552330
Comments: 69
Kudos: 149





	1. Chapter 1

_“Run, run Rudolph.  
_ _Santa’s gotta make it to town  
_ _Santa, make him hurry,  
T_ _ell him he can take the freeway down.”_

“Riley, is there any way that you can silence Jack’s comms?” Mac asks, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. He’s bouncing on his toes to stay warm in the cold as he waits for ex-fil outside an abandoned warehouse. 

“Already made that request to Matty. It was denied,” Riley replies, safely sequestered in the War Room, wincing in sympathy at the chill she can hear in Mac’s voice. 

“That’s because she hasn’t listened to the same verse of Run Run Rudolph eight times in a row.”

“If y’all are gonna make me drive a Jetta with reindeer antlers sticking out the windows and a red nose on the bumper you’re going to reap the consequences of that decision.” 

“If the car is Rudolph, are you Santa in this scenario?” Mac asks laughing, cupping his hands against his mouth to warm them. “Thought you didn’t believe in Santa.”

“I’m the one swooping in to save the day with a Christmas miracle. Little blond elves waiting for ex-fil in the form of their partners should keep their mouths shut or we’re gonna start singing Angus got run over by a reindeer.” He pauses. “You doing okay, kid?”

“Sure,” Mac replies, lips twitching up in a smile that despite Jack’s cantankerous rant, he just can’t stop himself from worrying about his partner. It evokes the feelings of family that Jack is always pestering him about. Especially around this time of year. “Just tell me the heat works.”

“Nice and toasty. Even got butt warmers in the seats.”

“That sounds fantastic,” Mac shivers, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. 

“Cresting the hill now,” Jack says. “I can see you shivering at the bottom. I’ll be there in two shakes.” 

_“And away went Rudolph,  
_ _Whizzing like a merry-go-round.”_

“You’re taking those curves a little fast, aren’t ya, Santa?” Mac squints through the light flurries, watching the flashes of silver through the trees and around the sharp switchbacks. “I’m not that cold.”

“Uh.”

“Jack, what’s wrong?” 

“Might be at the bottom a little quicker than I thought.”

The tires squeal as they round the bend, the sloping decline of the road causing the vehicle to gain speed. Skidding on a slick patch of ice.

“What’s going on?”

“Brakes are out,” Jack says. The steady calm of his voice belying his panic.

Mac thought he was cold before. Jack's words induce a dread that freezes the very marrow of his bones.

The road is narrow. Curving and twisting. There’s no shoulder, no way for Jack to slow his descent, and bailing at this speed could prove deadly. Mac takes off, legs pumping, muscles cold and protesting the sudden exertion. 

“Stupid rental. This never would have happened in one of my cars,” Jack growls. 

“Are they responding at all?” Mac’s breathing is labored. Every breath leaving a puff of vapor in the frigid air.

“Not enough. Not even squishy. Think the line was cut.” 

A coil of fear twists around Jack’s voice now. It's rare to hear true fear in his words and it causes Mac's footfalls to falter for a step.

“Can you--” but the words are cut off by the screech of metal on metal as the car hits the guardrail. Shrieking. It crumples and gives way. 

For a horrifying moment, the car hovers, hanging over the abyss, surrounded by nothing but air before gravity exerts its pull, forcing the vehicle back toward the earth. 

Mac screams. Sprinting full tilt towards the spot where the car disappeared from sight. Lungs protesting the gasps of cold air he forces past his lips. Sitting heavy and frozen in his chest. 

In the back of his mind, he hears Riley yelling for someone to answer, to tell her what’s going on.

He scuttles to a stop at the edge, catching himself on the broken guardrail as he leans over, searching for the car.

It’s not the sheer rock cliff he feared, but the slope is dangerously steep. Mac scrambles over the edge, loose clumps of dirt and rocks skitter under his feet. His slips against the vegetation, grabbing overgrown clumps of weeds to slow his descent, following the path blazed by the car. 

His foot slides out from under him and he lands with a jarring thud, reverberating up his spine. His momentum continues, skidding halfway down the hill on the seat of his pants. Desperate to reach the bottom. It doesn't matter how he gets there.

Jack's car is rapidly submerging under a steadily flowing river. 

Even as he slips and slides and his feet stumble, Mac's gaze never falters. Watching the Jetta for Jack to emerge. 

From here, he can’t see any movement. No signs of… life. 

Mac tries regaining his footing, yelling for Jack. 

He reaches the bottom and crashes to his knees, tearing through his cargo pants and bruising his legs, but he hardly notices. He strips off his heavy coat before splashing into the river, gasping at the shocking cold. 

Currents swirl around his ankles. Tug at his legs, threatening to knock him over drag him away. Mocking his attempts at reaching the car and Jack. Moss-slick stones wobble beneath his feet. 

He pushes forward, straining against the force of the flow. With his next step the riverbed disappears, plunging him into the depths. 

His body spasms against the cold. He can’t help the involuntary inhale. Coughing and choking, thrashing to breach the surface as water rushes over his head.

Sweeping and swirling over him, waterlogging his already heavy sweater, dragging him under and downstream. 

His frantic fight slows as his body slips towards shock. 

He’s going to drown. 

He’s going to let Jack drown. 

His vision goes dark.

The next moment he slams against something sturdy and smooth. He sputters in surprise, gasping and lungs burning as he swallows another mouthful of water. 

His hands scramble. The force of the water pins him to the car. He struggles, finding the handle of the back car door. He pushes up. Snorting as his head breaks the surface. Lungs heaving, desperate for air. Water rushes over the roof of the car.

Wracking coughs as he catches his breath.

“Jack!” He screams to be heard above the roar of the river. He brushes dripping hair back from his forehead, out of his eyes. Using the car for leverage, he fights his way to the driver’s door, struggling against the current.

Inhaling deeply, Mac dives beneath the surface, forcing his eyes open against the murky water. 

Jack tugging frantically at his seat belt, trapping him in the vehicle. It’s holding fast despite his frantic attempts to release it. He’s thrashing. Struggling to push his head up. Forcing his face into the small pocket of air that remains near the roof of the car. Rapidly dwindling as the car fills with water. 

Mac bangs on the window, making Jack turn, face him. Eye wide but the wild panic stilling when they fall on Mac. He beats his hand against the window. 

Bracing his feet on the back door, Mac grabs the latch with two hands, throwing his weight backwards while Jack pushes. The door doesn’t budge. Tightening his grip on the handle, he tries again. 

Jack cranes his neck, sucking in one last desperate breath before the entire interior is filled with water and his tiny air pocket disappears. He turns his gaze back to Mac and taps against the window to get his attention. He places one palm on the window, softening his eyes. Absolving Mac from any guilt. 

Mac smacks the window over Jack’s hand with an angry fist and shakes his head. With a renewed frenetic energy he struggles to remove his knife from his pocket. With a firm grasp, he lines up the stout nub of the glass-breaker on the bottom of his knife and drives it into the window.

A small chip appears, but nothing else. 

He forces himself to ignore the disappointment on Jack’s face and throws his whole body forward, using the momentum of the current. The chip deepens. It’s not enough. Mac feels like screaming.

On the next blow, it begins to spiderweb but doesn’t break. Another frantic blow.

Jack’s hand skims across the window, saying goodbye as the fight leaves Jack’s eyes. 

One more desperation filled pop against the glass, he's not letting Jack go, not like this, and the force of the water aids in Mac’s strikes and causes the tempered glass to rush inward. Mac leans through the window, tugging at the seat belt, the nylon slipping and tearing at his hands. 

Jack’s head bobs. His eyes are closed.

Mac’s lungs are screaming in protest. His vision starbursting as his head throbs. He pushes away from Jack, head breaking the surface and sucking in greedy mouthfuls of air. Coughing.

His hands feel thick, fingers clumsy and shaking with cold. He fumbles to open his knife. He takes a few deeps breaths, hyperoxygenating, before diving under again.

Back into the water, eyes burning, he pulls himself through the window and halfway into the car again, grunting as his belly scraps against the remaining glass in the window. Thrusting his hands into Jack’s hair and tipping his head back, he plugs Jack’s nose, forming a firm seal with his lips over Jack’s and gives him a breath. He can still feel Jack’s pulse beating weakly beneath his fingers. He still has time. He can still save Jack. 

He pulls away, sawing at the seat belt.

He wants to scream in frustration, but can’t waste the limited reserves of oxygen on a futile action. Jack doesn’t have time for him to surface again. 

His chest is in agony, begging to release the spent carbon dioxide. He refuses the demand, forcing his body to keep going. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters if Jack dies. 

The knife slips, slicing his hand, and he chokes back a silent cry, clenching his jaw to keep the air inside. 

The shoulder belt unravels and tears. Mac grapples for the lap belt and heaves. It loosens and Mac tugs again. 

He reaches under Jack’s arms, struggling to wriggle Jack’s legs from under the steering wheel. Bashing his shoulder against the door frame as he muscles Jack out of the seat. The extra weight causes Mac to sink. His feet touch silty shifting bottom, coiling his legs and pushing off the riverbed. 

Mac fights against the rising panic. His head is pounding with enough pressure he feels like it might explode. He can hear his pulse rushing in his ears. 

His vision going dark. Hazy in the murky water. 

It feels like his heart might beat itself out of his chest, his lungs following in a desperate search for fresh oxygen. 

Pulsating, every cell in his body screaming. 

Mac kicks his legs, propelling them to the surface. Each stroke is weaker than the last. It feels like his veins are shriveling. 

He bursts from the depth, sputtering. Coughing so hard that even though air is available now, his lungs can’t remember what to do with it. 

Mac holds Jack’s lolling head above the surface, back to chest, straining under his weight.

The help of buoyancy negated by the strength of the current. His fingers are frozen, he feels like any moment Jack is going to be torn out of his grip and whisked downstream. 

“Come on, Jack, help me,” Mac begs, desperately hoisting Jack higher against his chest. 

His feet find the rocks of the riverbed again, still slipping and sliding but his movement is steadier now. He sloshes onto the shore, sinking into the mud.

His boots squelch with each step. He drops Jack, legs still half in the water. 

Mac leans over him, nearly collapsing in exhaustion. 

Numb fingers search for a pulse under Jack’s jaw. 

“No,” Mac gasps. “Don’t do this to me, Jack.” 

One hand on top of the other over Jack’s sternum, he pushes forcefully, circulating blood because Jack can’t do it for himself. 

He tips Jack’s head back, clamping his nose, and covering Jack’s mouth with his own, breathing in two quick breaths before slamming his hands back against Jack’s chest. Arms straight, elbows locked, he counts another thirty compressions. And then two breaths.

Water drips from his hair. Moisture on his face. River water, tears, it blends together.

He can see his breath forming steam in the air. 

His arms quiver with exertion. He’s tiring.

His muscles frozen and protesting. Cramping.

“Please, Jack. Please. Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this.” He gasps between another two breaths blown into Jack’s mouth. 

He focuses on the actions. The burn of his muscles, not on the ribs he feels bending under his hands. His labored breaths, not that the only oxygen in Jack’s body is what Mac is breathing for him. Not on the pallor of Jack’s face under the beard. Or the closed eyes, the burst blood vessels in the delicate skin of his eyelid.

If he doesn’t look down, it feels like he’s practicing CPR with a mannequin in the Phoenix gym. Knees on a mat, not rocks, bruising his legs. Instead of skin under his hands it’s plastic and rubber, tasting of mild disinfectant when he blows another breath into cold lips. 

Like any moment the instructor will tell him to push harder or faster. 

He tries not to think about how Jack is usually the instructor. How Jack would walk between the students singing the BeeGees. 

_Stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive._

He definitely doesn’t think about Jack singing Queen. 

His chest is aching. He feels a cough building beneath his sternum. 

Under the rushing in his ears, he vaguely hears the scuffling of a rescue crew sliding down the hill to them. He resists the urge to turn, look behind and gauge their progress, not wanting anything to interrupt the life saving rhythm.

Mac forces aside his exhaustion, continuing compressions. 

Jack chokes and coughs, water spills from his mouth. He gags. Mac rolls him onto his side to help expel the liquid. 

Mac sits on his heels behind Jack, trembling. He loops his arms under Jack’s, holding him on his side. He can feel the stuttering rise and fall of Jack’s back and chest as he continues coughing. His lips blue. 

Mac rubs his hands against Jack’s shoulders to warm him. Against his chest to soothe the spasms between croupy coughs. Jack moans.

A hand on his shoulder startles Mac, signaling the arrival of the medics. They have to pry him from Jack’s side, between frozen muscles and fear, Mac can’t force himself to let go. 

His teeth are clenched so tightly, locked in a perpetual chatter, that he couldn’t answer their questions even if he could understand them. His head is in a fog, blood pulsing in his ears, and the steady whoosh of the river. 

A mylar blanket is wrapped around his shoulders, and a thermometer stuck in his ear as Jack is loaded into a stokes. 

It beeps “Lo” unable to accurately gauge his frigid body temperature. 

“How long was he underwater?”

Mac shakes his head, a deep wracking cough explodes from his chest. 

“Too long.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Water drips from an icicle, dangling in the bare branches of the tree above them, matching the steady thrum of Jack’s pulse under Mac’s fingertips.

Gray water swirls hypnotically. Smooth. Bubbling over rocks and against the banks. Teasing. Like it didn’t just try to rip Jack from his arms and his life.

Jack’s stuttering breaths are proof that he didn’t fail. The river didn’t steal Jack away.

But when he closes his eyes, he sees Jack’s. Vacant. 

Gone. 

When the medics pull Jack from his arms, Mac flounders. Frantically reaching out to hold onto his partner. Nearly tumbling back into the river in panic. 

“Easy there, bud,” the medic says in a low drawl that sounds enough like Jack’s that it has Mac’s head snapping up. “Can you tell me your name?”

“M-M-Mac,” he stutters between the violent shivers wracking him. His eyes flicking back to Jack. Too still, too pale. The medics buzzing around him with life-saving energy. 

A tickle in his chest is the only warning before an explosive cough tears through him. Choking on the frigid air. He hunches over his knees to ease the twisting pain. When he regains control over his lungs the stokes carrying Jack has disappeared over the top of the ravine. 

“How long were you in the water, Mac?” the medic asks, wrapping a Mylar blanket around his shoulders. Hand gripping his wrist, measuring his pulse and respirations.

He doesn’t know.

Too long. 

Not long enough.

Not fast enough. 

“I’m okay,” Mac protests through chattering teeth. The wind is picking up. Cutting through him like a knife, like icepicks being driven into the cartilage of his ears. He’s still shivering. That’s a good thing.

He doesn’t think Jack was shivering. 

Dead men don’t shiver. 

“Jack?” He rasps, his fingers catching the sleeve of the paramedic.

“They’re doing what they can.”

It’s a nonanswer and he doesn't like it. Just a distraction, meant to placate him so they can do their jobs. So they can focus on him. Not making a promise they, or Jack, can't keep.

“Gonna wrap you up real good and get you up top with your friend.” The medic’s hand is on his chest, a gentle push has him lying back in the stokes basket as they pack another blanket around him. He wants to argue. To follow Jack up the hill under his own power, but once he’s flat he can barely lift his head. The cold leaching every bit of strength that he had left. 

It’s a long, tedious hike to the top of the ravine. They’re careful, trying not to jostle him, rough treatment poses a very real threat of sending him into shock or a cardiac arrhythmia. Still, he wishes they would hurry. He needs to know Jack is okay. 

He hears the whirring siren of the ambulance carrying Jack fade away before they’re even halfway up. 

In frustration, he closes his eyes against the gray skies and evergreen branches spinning overhead. Thick snowflakes land on his face, coating his eyelashes. There’s nothing he can do. 

A thump and a bump as they crest the hill, and load him into the ambulance, slamming the doors shut tightly. The interior toasty. 

The blood pressure cuff squeezes painfully against frozen skin, a stethoscope pressed against the crook of his elbow. He’s shaking too hard for an electronic cuff to read accurately. 

Another medic untucks the blankets, stripping him of his wet clothes and attaching the leads of a heart monitor to his chest. Sliding a heat pack against his skin to begin rewarming him. 

Mac’s heavy eyelids slide closed. He’s so tired. He just wants to sleep.

It’s a blur of lights and sirens and voices, as he rattles and bumps out of the back of the ambulance and into a brightly lit emergency department. Mac cranes his head, searching the exam rooms they pass for any signs of Jack The medic reports his story and vital signs as they transfer him from their cot to the exam bed. 

There’s a prick against his skin as another IV is started and he feels a warm flush of saline trace up his vein. 

“Did you swallow any water?” 

He meets the worried eyes of the nurse who presses her stethoscope firmly against his chest, moving it back and forth, listening intently. Mac can hear audible crackles every time he inhales. She probably didn’t even need to use the instrument. She instructs him to take a deep breath. 

It’s going to be bad. He knows this, but follows her directions. He wasn’t prepared for the bone rattling cough that shakes through him, stealing each hard fought breath. He’s positive he dislocates a rib with the force of it.

His chest is tight and it burns.

He curls into his side, trying to ease the spasms. Her stethoscope is cold, moving systematically down his back on either side of his spine, before she helps him recline against the raised bed. 

He’s not walking out of this without pneumonia and some hefty antibiotics and nebulizer treatments. 

As long as Jack is alright, that’s all that matters. 

He opens his mouth, takes a breath to ask after his partner again but instead another wicked cough shakes him. An oxygen mask is slipped over his face. The sharp smell of plastic covers his nose and mouth. The pulse ox clipped to his finger clicks against the side rails as he wraps his hands around them, anchoring himself in the moment so he doesn’t tear the mask away in a hazy hypoxic panic. 

He vaguely hears the orders for a chest x-ray and lab draws. 

The nurse is calling for the respiratory therapist.

The room is glaringly bright. Vibrating with overwhelming activity. 

Warm vapor brushes against his skin, soothing his airways.

A large needle pierces his wrist, into an artery for blood gases. He can feel his pulse against the needle and it hurts. The glove clad hands tighten on his arm, and a blurry figure tells him to stay still. 

Fresh warm packs replace the old ones. Except there’s a new problem as warmth seeps back into his body.

Everything hurts.

It aches, throbbing deep in his joints as he twists, trying to relieve the pressure on his spine and his hips. Shoulders and ankles.

Prickling.

Burning, as skin cold as ice starts to rewarm, covered with blankets that feel too heavy. Crushing him. He can’t breathe. 

The muscles of his chest contract, forcing out a deep barking cough. Again and again, trying to clear the lungfuls of river water he swallowed. He throws himself upright, trying to clear the thick sputum. He chokes and gags and can’t catch his breath. Tears filling his eyes. It feels like he’s drowning. Again.

The tears leak from his eyes, down his face, and the tracks light up painfully raw nerve endings that are coming back online. 

His head is foggy, vision blurring. 

He feels a hand on his back, telling him to relax. To breathe. 

His blue eyes meet worried brown ones. 

Bozer. How did he get here so fast? His eyes scan the room and he realizes he’s no longer in the bright bustling emergency department but safely tucked into a hospital room, the lights on a dimmer to allow for rest and healing. The sky outside the window is dark, just faint splashes of pink hidden behind the cityscape. 

Bozer helps him lean back against the pillow. The bed raised so he’s nearly sitting upright. 

There’s an oxygen cannula in his nose now, rather than the mask he notices gratefully.

“Jack?” He croaks. 

Bozer pats his arm. “Riley’s with him,” 

Another dodge. Another redirect. An effort to distract him.

“Want some water?” Bozer offers, as he lifts the styrofoam cup, positioning the straw towards Mac’s lips. 

Mac lifts a shaky hand to hold the cup, aiming a glare in Bozer’s direction when he doesn’t let go.

“One attempted drowning per day,” Bozer says, steadying the cup. 

Mac grimaces as he swallows the tepid water around his raw throat. “Can I go see him?”

“Well, the doctor said you’re not allowed to get up until your core temperature is normal,” Bozer says, concern makes his voice harsher than normal as he tucks the coarse blankets around Mac's shoulders, wrapping him up tight. “Which despite blankets and warmed saline, you’ve been really stubborn about doing.”

“I can take the blankets and IV with me,” Mac argues. 

"You've got some sort of heating pad on you too. That's a lot of equipment to drag around."

"I'm alright, Boze. You don't have to worry about me."

"No, you're really not," Bozer argues. "And yeah, I do."

"I just need to see him."

“Look, Mac, that’s not for me to decide, and I will call the nurse if you attempt a jailbreak,” Bozer says sternly, trying to head off Mac's arguments before he makes them. "This is all to help you, so don't do something dumb like take out your IV and try to escape or go crashing into a river without telling anyone what is going on." 

Mac’s face falls. He closes his eyes. Overwhelmed with exhaustion and the events of the day, how much his body hurts and his worry for Jack. He swallows and folds his arms across his chest, mindful of the IV and pulse ox, rubbing his arms in a self-soothing motion for warmth and comfort, to distract himself from how close to tears he feels. 

“Aw, Mac,” Bozer’s voice is soft. His hand coming to rest against Mac’s shoulder. “I’m just worried about you. I’m not yelling at you…”

Mac shakes his head. “It’s not… he wasn’t breathing when I got him out.” He chokes back a strained huff that threatens to turn into tears.

“I know, but you got him out,” Bozer squeezes his shoulder. “And you got him breathing.” 

“I wasn’t fast enough. He was… he was gone, Boze. I saw it,” Mac bites his lip, looking up at his friend. Eyes blurry. “And even after, he didn’t wake up. I need to see him. I need to talk to his doctor. I need to know. I don't know what I'll do if he's not alright.”

Bozer wipes his own moist eyes and picks up his phone. A moment later Riley’s face pops onto the screen.

“Bozer?” Worry lacing her voice. This is early for one of their pre-arranged check-ins.

“Somebody won’t go back to sleep until he sees Jack with his own eyes, in an effort to not win him an elopement risk wanderguard, can my boy see his boy?” Bozer attempts humor to ease the palpable tension in the room. Tension strong enough that he can feel it radiating off of Riley in Jack’s room. He props the phone up on the bedside table, so Mac can see the screen.

Riley smiles wetly at him. 

Somehow, Mac had forgotten she was on comms and wonders how long they were active. He vaguely remembers her yelling at him to answer, but he can’t recall if he told her what had happened. Did she hear him screaming for Jack? Listening to him tumbling down the ravine? Did the radio squeal and squelch when he was dunked by the current before losing reception completely? Stuck, deaf and blind on the other end of the line while her family was in peril an unable to do anything except dispatch help to their location.

“Hey, Riles.”

“I’m gonna let it slide for now, but don’t you ever do that to me again.”

Mac nods, not trusting his voice.

“He’s still out. They’re keeping him sedated. They rewarmed him to thirty-five degrees Celsius, which probably means more to you than it does to me. But they’re going to keep him at that temperature for a few more hours and monitor his heart and brain before gradually rewarming him the rest of the way. In his case, the cold was a good thing.” Riley says, turning the screen towards Jack, and propping her phone up so Mac can watch him.

Mac quickly digests the information, eyes flicking over Jack's still pale face. Another shivers courses through him, remembering the moment the fight left Jack's eyes. 

"When he wakes up, I'll yell at the both of you for scaring me."

The steady rise and fall of Jack’s chest is visible on the screen, and in the corner Mac can see the monitor tracing the rhythm of his heart and his most recent set of vital signs. 

Mac leans back, anxiety easing. It’s not enough, but it will do for now. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, original plan was for 3 chapters but I was feeling some angst. We'll finish up tomorrow instead.  
> Minor spoilers for Christmas Vacation and spot the Firefly quote.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me guys!

Mac jerks awake with a soft gasp. His hand squeezes Jack’s. His skin still too cold, Jack usually runs hot, but the waxy pallor and blue lips have released their hold and he’s taken on a rosier hue. His eyes are still closed. Mac has been watching them flutter beneath the lids, hoping that any moment Jack will surface enough to open them. To reassure Mac that he didn’t lose Jack. 

Jack’s Dallas Cowboys snuggie is draped around Mac’s shoulders. Shivers intermittently tremble through him, but it has more to do with the memories of the dark swirling water and watching Jack drown in front of him than cold. 

He lost the core temperature probe and bair hugger, a blanket that kept a continuous flow of warm air surrounding him, a few hours ago. Though they’re still checking his temperature and vital signs frequently, and the leads of the telemetry monitor are still stuck to his chest. The last bag of warmed saline hangs on the IV pump that he dragged with him into Jack’s room when they finally deemed him stable enough to move to the recliner in there.

Mac shivers again and pulls the snuggie tighter, watching Jack’s pale face, the steady rise and fall of his chest. Listening to the thick rumble of pneumonia rattle with each breath.  


They’re a matched set. Mac coughs, rubbing his aching chest, and following the directions that he’s too familiar with, braces with a pillow as the wracking cough tears through him. It leaves him breathless when he finally stops. The muscles of his chest protest the exertion. The stitches on his lower abdomen from the glass shards tug. 

He leans back in the recliner, eyes closed and forcing breath in through his nose and out through pursed lips.

“You could wake up, you know?” Mac mumbles. “This is the third time they’ve played Christmas Vacation since we’ve been here,” He gestures at the TV. “Home Alone one and two, followed by Elf. I’m going to be able to out movie quote you soon.”

Mac fiddles with the combination call light and television remote attached to the bed.

They started lessening the sedation this morning and began the rewarming process. The neurologist is hopeful that the cold temperatures when Jack stopped breathing preserved his brain. His scans look promising.  


The electrophysiologist, the heart rhythm specialist looked at Jack’s serial EKGs, the events recorded on his telemetry monitor and doesn’t believe that Jack will face any long term effects. And a cardiologist weighed in on the echocardiogram. His ejection fraction, the blood pumped with each beat of his heart is excellent. The years Jack spent chasing after Mac keeping him young and fit despite his claims that Mac is making him old and gray before his time.

Bozer and Riley listen with rapt attention to each specialist who comes through to examine Mac and Jack. Hopeful. Encouraging. Good news. But Mac can't shake the fear that he was too late. That he failed Jack when it mattered.

All the articles that Mac has found and scoured over, the medical journals that he and the Phoenix are now subscribed to, describe a best case scenario timeline that Jack’s rescue seems to follow closely.

By Mac’s count it was less than six minutes between the moment Jack stopped breathing and Mac was able to start breathing for him on the shore, and his body temperature low enough to preserve brain and heart function.

But it’s why Mac can’t sleep.

Body jerking awake, choking and gasping, heart racing.

Eidetic memory recalling every second of his tumble into the ravine, each panicked breath he took while Jack drowned.

The seconds he wasted.

Pulling off his coat.

Futile attempts to pull open the door against the current. He should have started with the glass-breaker. It would have saved at least thirty-four seconds.

He might not have needed to surface, could have gotten Jack out without wasting time.

Eyes on the clock, Mac takes a breath as deep as he dares, not wanting to set off another coughing jag, and holds it. Watching the second hand make its journey around the face.

He first hears his heartbeat in his ears at fifty-seven seconds.

Jack has taken twelve coarse breaths in that time.

His chest starts protesting, demanding to release his spent breath at the seventy-four second mark.

Eighty-one beats of Jack’s pulse against his fingertips.

A dull thick feeling in his head at eighty-two seconds.

His heart races at ninety-five, pounding.

A noise at the door startles him and he releases his breath with a sputter that turns into a barking cough. His vision goes black, unable to draw air into his already oxygen starved lungs. The familiar panicked feeling sounding like a klaxon in his brain. 

A small body settles onto the armrest of the recliner, gentle hands rubbing his back in soothing circles. Familiar, comforting hands, but not the ones Mac wants.

“In through your nose,” Riley’s soft voice breaks through the haze. “That’s it, come on, Mac.”

The coughing doesn’t subside.

“Bozer, get the nurse.”

Mac waves a hand. “I’m good,” he pants between coughs.

“Do you need another nebulizer treatment?”

Mac shakes his head. He’s not going to let his dumb experiment tear him from Jack’s side.

“Maybe you should go rest,” Bozer suggests as Mac slowly regains control of his breathing. “You’ve been sitting up for a while. Might be good to take a nap.”

Mac shoots him a look. “I can handle sitting in a chair for longer than an hour, guys.”

Riley and Bozer share a look before Bozer takes a deep breath and opens his mouth. “In a normal situation, not one where you almost died yesterday.”

“I didn’t almost die. Jack did.” Mac glares at him, and for a moment he thinks Bozer is going to back down. Until Bozer meets Riley's eyes and squares his shoulders. That must be why their quick lunch run took so long. They spent it discussing how they would handle him. Bozer's version of tough love, organizing an intervention or calling him on his BS, doesn't usually stand up if Mac pushes back, dissolving into supportive words and a hug and ultimately letting Mac have his way.

“But the doctor said on top of pneumonia and hypothermia, that you’re suffering from extreme fatigue. You're going to exhaust yourself, and freak Jack out when he wakes up and hears that you're tucked into your own bed."

“Which is exactly why I should stay right here. So he doesn’t freak out when he wakes up. We don’t know how he’s going to be when he wakes up or what he’s going to remember.” He leaves off his fear that despite the reassurances they’ve been given, this changed Jack. Damaged his heart or his brain beyond repair. Or that when he wakes, Jack won’t be the same man who went into the river. Mac saved a stranger. 

Or worse, Jack will never wake, spending his remaining days lost in limbo. Mac slowly watching him fade until he loses Jack forever.

“Mac…” Riley begins slowly.

“They don’t know. They can do all the tests in the world, but until he’s awake, we won’t know. What if after all of this he’s--” Mac breaks off coughing again.

“He’ll be okay. He has to be. I don’t think anything, can keep Jack from Mac,” Bozer says as Mac leans his head back against the vinyl recliner, exhausted. “That’s just not the way the world works.” 

“No power in the ‘verse can stop him,” Riley says with a smile. Determination in her voice. 

Mac nods. He wants to have their faith. Jack would kick his ass for doubting him. He’s seen Jack come back from worse, but he can’t shake the fear that one of these days his body won’t have the strength to fight anymore. 

“They just started lessening the sedation this morning,” Riley says gently. “It could be hours before he wakes up. When he does, he’s going to try to out worry you. You should get a jump on the rest and recovery so that you can boss him around.” 

Mac snorts, watching his friends attempt to wrangle him.

Riley’s hand still rubs his shoulders. “We got some soup. It’s not Bozer’s, but do you think you could try some of it?”

Mac reaches for the container.

“Want to go eat it in your room?” Bozer asks.

“I won’t overdo it. I just want to sit up for a while yet.” He glances between two pairs of brown eyes. “I’ll eat and I’ll go take a nap when the movie is over.” He gestures to the TV.

They exchange another look. 

“Oh, come on, guys!” 

“The Griswold’s haven’t even cut down their Christmas tree yet,” Bozer says. “There are hours left on this movie.” 

“I’m not leaving him. Not yet.”  


Bozer hands over the soup as they give in, watching Mac settle back, having won this round.

The soup isn’t even the same league as Bozer’s, but it’s warm. They’ve been piling Mac with warm decaffeinated beverages since he woke up, warming him from the inside out. He dutifully drinks the soup, munches on the crackers and rolls his eyes at Bozer’s excitement that he finishes the cup. 

A nurse comes by, taking both Mac and Jack’s vital signs, double checking the drip rates programmed into the IV pumps and piggybacks the next doses of antibiotics onto the running fluids. Jack doesn’t stir as she exchanges the rewarming packs against his skin, and offers Mac a new blanket, fresh from the warmer. 

Mac’s gaze flicks up to the television.

_ “Vixen and Blitzen and all his reindeer pulling on the reins,”  _ plays through the tinny speakers while the SWAT team descends upon the Griswold house on the screen.

Riley’s rig is in her lap, only half-paying attention to the movie as she sits on the couch. Bozer is dozing next to her. 

Eyes returning to Jack, Mac leans back, heading resting on his pillow. The movie is almost over. The timer running down, and he knows bargaining for extra time isn’t going to work. 

“Come on, Jack,” he whispers, urging him to wake. Even if it were just for a second, Mac would feel better going back to his room if he could just see Jack’s eyes.

Eyes vibrant with life. Not cold and gone like the ones that haunt his dreams. 

* * *

“Watching me sleep is super creepy, Bozer,” Mac says, only half-opening bleary eyes. The plastic mattress crinkles underneath him, coarse hospital sheets rubbing against sensitive skin. He should have Bozer go buy him a pillow to use instead of this thin, lumpy, plastic-covered excuse for one. He’s amazed he was able to sleep at all. 

“He woke up.”

Mac freezes mid-stretch, pushing himself upright, heart racing. He throws back the blankets on the bed. 

“Unplug the IV pole for me,” he instructs, snatching up his non-skid socks and pulling them on. 

“He’s asleep again,” Bozer says, putting a hand on Mac’s shoulder to slow him. 

Mac’s face falls with disappointment. 

“But he was alert. Talking. Full Jack Dalton ranting. And he remembered what happened.” 

“Why didn’t you come get me?” 

Bozer winces. “You were asleep.”

“You should have woken me up!” 

“Well, you hadn’t been asleep that long, and you needed it. You would have insisted on coming back to sit there-”

“Yeah, I would have.”

“And you would have tried to stay there the rest of the day, even though you need rest. Plus Jack never would have gone back to sleep if you’d been sitting there. You both would have tried to out stubborn the other with your ‘I’m fine’ lies.”

“I’m not lying. I am… well, I’m okay enough to sit in a chair. It’s not like I’m trying to go for a run.” 

“That’s only because they gave you the IV pole with the squeaky wheel that gets stuck if you try to speed walk down the hall.”

“Yeah,” Mac says as he rolls the pole back and forth between his hands, watching the sticky wheel pirouette. “I could probably fix it.”

“I think you should leave it be,” Bozer says, throwing a blanket across Mac’s shoulders as they walk down the hall, squeaking the whole way. “They don’t need an IV pole that explodes. And if you add a turbo engine to yours Jack will get jealous and make you build one for him so you guys can race down the halls and that sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

Mac chuckles at the mental image the words present as they enter Jack's room, sobering quickly and trying not to feel disappointed. It looks the same. If Bozer hadn't told him Jack had woken up he'd have no idea. There are no clues signalling Jack's return to consciousness. IVs still running, the white noise static of the bair hugger competing with Jack's light snoring. Riley on the small couch. Another round of Christmas movies playing on the TV. 

Mac parks himself at Jack’s side, and doesn't even complain as Bozer pulls the blankets over his shoulders. He only has to worry about Jack. His friends have spent the last two days worrying about both of them. 

He watches and waits in a half-disbelief of Riley and Bozer’s claims that Jack woke. Jack has always been able to sense his presence and his worries. His concern for Mac's wellbeing outweighing everything else. Knows when Mac needs him.  


Instead of waking and offering the much needed reassurances, they keep missing each other. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a tiny reference to my Christmas fic from last year [Christmas Eve Will Find Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17039942)

Mac stands in his bathroom. 

It has been a long week. 

In the glaring fluorescent, he looks more pale than usual. Flushes of pink on skin that is taut against his cheekbones. Deep sunken circles under his eyes. Grateful to be home. 

Discharged home on oral antibiotics, reminders to take it easy, and off rotation through the New Year. Despite the reassurances that Jack is fine and his own body temperature is within normal limits, he can’t seem to shake the chill that’s settled into the marrow of his bones. Blankets, fuzzy punny Christmas socks, and hot chocolate don’t touch it. 

He shivers himself awake, on the rare occasion that he’s able to sleep. Every time he closes his eyes he sees Jack’s pale face and still chest. Like watching a movie, he sees his hands pushing against Jack’s chest, forcing air into his lungs. Only this time Jack doesn’t sputter and cough the water from his lungs. Mac fights exhaustion and continues compressions, the only thing keeping Jack’s heart beating. 

The moment he feels like he might be able to drop off to sleep his body jerks awake, gasping, feeling like he’s being pulled underwater, away from Jack, and drowning. Jack’s body floats lifelessly. Vacant eyes boring into his soul. Stuck in a purgatory where he watches Jack die over and over.

He runs a shaky hand through his hair, pushing it back. He clutches the edge of the sink, leaning forward, watching his breath against the glass of the mirror, convincing himself that he’s alive. 

It would be better if he’d gotten to talk to Jack for more than a couple of minutes. 

They keep missing each other. Awake while the other is asleep. Out of sync. 

He lost Jack. Brought him back, but lost him just the same.

Jack was dead for minutes. His heart wasn’t beating. Mac doesn’t know where he went for those minutes, but he can’t help but worry that it somehow severed their bond. Damaged the connection between them. 

That because he was too slow he’s lost that closeness with Jack. Destroyed the ability to read each other’s minds, to know and be what the other needs. 

While that thought twists painfully in his chest, it is something that they can rebuild. They can work their way back to how things were.

Guilt welling up, choking him more than the infection brewing there. He can’t stop the voice in his head from condemning him. Or the worse, crippling thought that tells him that Jack blames him. That the distance is purposeful. Jack can’t trust him but doesn’t want to tell him that. 

He shakes his head as if trying to dislodge the intrusive thought from his brain. 

He grabs the neckline of his sweatshirt, takes as deep a breath as he dares, not wanting to set off a coughing spell and pulls the shirt over his head. He can’t hold back the groan that follows the motion, pulling on sore muscles. Bandages stretch across his torso just above his pajama pants. He picks at the tape holding them in place. 

He pulls the first gauze pad off, tossing it into the garbage can. A small row of black stitches march across the skin above his hip bone. Bruising mars the skin surrounding the wound. He resists the urge to poke at it, instead moves onto the next bandage, pulling this one loose. It looks roughly the same as the first. A few more stitches, the bruising a little deeper.

He’s working on the third piece of tape when he hears footsteps outside the door, expecting it to be Bozer, he doesn’t look up when the door opens. Not until he hears a gasp. 

He meets Jack’s eyes in the mirror.

Bright eyes that crinkle in confusion; brows that furrow in dismay. Teasing words dying on his lips that remain parted. 

Mac’s eyes widen. Guilt embedded in his hoarse whisper, “Jack.”

Jack takes a step forward, into the bathroom, and the fluorescent lights that hide nothing. No way for Mac to disguise his pallor, or the wounds across his belly. 

No way to disguise the dark crescents under Jack’s eyes. Pale skin under his dark beard. He looks sick, and pained. And Mac knows that’s his fault.

Jack’s hand is outstretched, fingers reach for the bruises and stitches in confusion, then flounder inches away from skin touching skin. 

“What happened?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Sure looks like something,” Jack’s voice is soft. “Is that from rescuing me?”

It’s Mac’s turn for his lips hang parted, unsure of what to say.

“I didn’t fight you, did I?” Jack asks in horror, taking a step back.

“No!” Mac nearly shouts. “No, the glass in the window, when I leaned through it. It caught me a little,” he gestures to his abdomen.

“Looks like a lot more than a little.” Jack moves forward again, but freezes after a step. “I don’t know how you managed…”

Mac can’t help the shudder sob that rocks through him. He pitches forward, head landing on Jack’s shoulder. Aborted gasps convulse against Jack’s chest.

Jack’s hands grip his shoulders, supportive, but carefully distant. Steadying but lacking the comfort that Mac is searching for. He draws in a breath, trying to steady himself, to find the strength to push away from Jack. Hurt coursing through him at Jack’s stiff restraint is more painful than the ache in his chest. More than the pull of stitches his hiccoughing breaths cause. And further proof that Jack can’t trust him.

Jack can’t work with someone he doesn’t trust. 

Jack can’t offer the comfort that Mac has come to rely on.

These last few days without him were torture. Mac doesn’t know what he’ll do if Jack isn’t part of his life anymore. But he can’t blame Jack for wanting to walk away. He gives himself another second of closeness as he prepares to pull away, maybe forever, if they can’t find a way to work through this, when he hears Jack’s murmuring voice.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Jack whispers. Hoarse and pained.

Mac looks up in surprise. “What?”

“I’m so sorry, Mac. I’m sorry that you’re hurting because of me. I never want to be the reason that you’re in pain.”

“You’re sorry?”

“Of course, you’re hurtin’ and I--”

“The only thing that hurts is thinking that you’re angry with me.”

“You saved my life,” Jack says, an eyebrow raising in confusion. 

“I let you drown,” Mac huffs. “I panicked. You died.”

“I did a pretty bad job at that then, because I’m still here.”

“I did CPR, you weren’t breathing.”

“So, you went toe to toe with death for me, won, and spent the last five days moping around, tying yourself up in knots thinking I was mad at you because…” Jack trails off. “Nope, I got nothing. What was going on in that big brain?”

“I don’t know,” Mac mumbles. 

“You saved me. Brought me back. That’s… well, that’s way more than two I owe ya.” Jack pulls Mac back to his chest, his hand runs along Mac’s spine. The other through his shaggy hair. Warm and secure. Holding on. Giving and receiving the comfort they both crave. “You sure you’re okay?”

Mac snorts. “Only you could drown five days ago and be worried about someone else.” He shivers.

Jack lets him go and grabs the forgotten sweatshirt on the counter. “Well, that’s what I do. You would get hypothermia and pneumonia rescuing me and stand here shivering only half-dressed.” 

Mac snatches the sweatshirt from Jack’s hands and pulls it over his head. 

“That’s better,” Jack says, rubbing Mac’s shoulders again. “I think the problem is that they kept us too long in the hospital. Now, you’re not allowed to use those words against me in the future, but in this case, and really all cases of hypothermia, we should immediately go home and bundle up on the couch and watch Christmas movies until we’re warm. Computers don’t do well in the cold and I don’t think your brain does so well either. Gets all slow and glitchy.” 

Mac rolls his eyes.

“Bozer’s got a fresh pot of hot chocolate, which I think will help get you rebooted. That’s what I was coming in here to tell you,” he slings an arm around Mac’s shoulders, leading him toward the kitchen and the warm beverage waiting for them. “I might not have your computer brain, but the hamsters must have been a little cold. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

Mac opens his mouth to protest.

“Think the hot chocolate will grease the ol’ hamster wheels up nice. I don’t know about you, but I’m in a mood to watch Christmas Vacation.” 

Jack settles next to Mac on the couch, trying to hide the smile twitching on his face. Mac quirks an eyebrow at him. Waiting until Bozer’s back is turned, Jack nudges him, nodding towards the mantel over the fireplace where the stockings are hung. Riley’s stylish blue boot. Mac’s homemade patchwork, Bozer’s classic Christmas red. 

Mac smirks. He doesn’t know how many years it’s been, but Bozer’s head is still going to explode when he notices Jack’s.

It’s not the copy of the classic one Bozer made their first Christmas at home, that one was destroyed before it had a chance to grace the mantelpiece, but the crew cut sock with Jack’s name written in puffy paint that despite Bozer burying it, and burning it, still finds its way into the Christmas decor every year. 

“When did you have time to do that?” Mac asks trying to hide the smile twitching on his face behind his mug. 

“Dude, I keep telling you if you aren’t doing it, it’s the ghosts of Christmases past or future or something,” Jack’s voice trails off in a jaw-cracking yawn. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” Mac says, catching Jack’s yawn. “Wonder what new words he’s learned this year to use in his rant about the sanctity of the Christmas stocking.”

“Maybe he’ll ask you to build him a rocket so he can launch it into space. Or throw it in the smoker.”

Bozer finds them a few minutes later, sound asleep. He drapes another blanket over them before snapping a photo and sending it to Riley. He smiles at the stockings on the mantle. Jack isn’t the only one skilled in the art of using distractions to make his family relax enough to fall asleep. 


End file.
